


weighed and measured

by Joanne_Barcia



Series: Folie à Deux [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9200198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanne_Barcia/pseuds/Joanne_Barcia
Summary: It was an interest.  Curiosity, intrigue, physical attraction, all at first.  Not exactly lust.  Far from infatuation for a man he's barely met.  That’s what Jim Moriarty would say if anyone asked, but no one ever will.  No one in the world – save, perhaps, for Sebastian Moran – has got the nerve.  //-“You know, you’re different, Moran,” Jim says after a few moments of quiet.The usual hint of disinterest.  Calm.  Feigned apathy: “Oh, yeah?”“Yeah.  You’re not like me, of course.  No one’s like me,” he says.  “But you’re not like them, either.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Got thinking about Sherlock again just because of this damn ship hahaha -- haven't watched in years but I just watched the whole show in a few days
> 
> idk basically I have a few ideas about what the dynamic/evolution of their relationship could be like, so this is a series. so far idk if my writing is good enough to cover everything i want it to, so suggestions/crit are very very welcome! :)
> 
> thanks! :)

The old dive bar where he finds the man is perfectly horrific, but Jim supposes – or, rather, he knows full well – that he’s exactly the type to be there.  Among other things, he’s a man with a preference for cheap liquor.  Not one to shy away from the chaotic noise, loud voices bouncing off the walls.  Unaffected by distractions.

And in this moment, not easily startled, or otherwise put off by his new employer scraping the barstool to his left and climbing up beside him. 

“Evening, Moran,” he says, not meeting the man’s eyes.  Not yet; the two stare forward at the wall, the cluttered collection of half-cleaned glasses that line it.

For his part, Moran gently swirls the whiskey in his own glass and nods his head.  Curt.  Neither friendly nor unkind.  “Boss.”

They sit in near-silence for a few moments, just as long as it takes for the bartender to halfheartedly supply Jim with his own drink and walk away. 

“Any point in asking how you found me here?  And why?” Moran asks before Jim can even swallow.  “Then again, I’m sure you’ll tell me either way.”

Jim hums as he sets his glass down.  “Was planning on it.  But now I’m not so sure.”

“Just as well.”  Half a smile, lighthearted, as he downs the rest of his glass and motions for a refill.  It comes soon enough, without conversation.

Patient, patient.  Jim could mistake it for apathy, but he doesn’t; he knows better.

“Since you’re wondering,” – “Wasn’t really.” – “it was your clothes.”

“My clothes.”  Unimpressed.  Still, the man glances sidelong at James Moriarty, offers a quiet sigh and says, “I've heard stories about you, you know.  About this.  I'll bet you want me to bite.”

Another swirl, another sip.  Jim shrugs.

“Well you don't have to.  Just thought you should know, the holes by the seam of your sweater are telling.”

“I’m sure.”

Somewhere behind them, a game of pool is being set up, the balls all clicking against each other, in all the wrong places inside the rack.  A group of girls with smudged makeup and high ponytails sits together at a nearby table, murmuring, scanning the crowd.  The beginnings of a small fight echo from the far side of the room.  None of it particularly matters.

“’kay, that’s the _how,”_ Moran tilts his body towards his employer, just enough to see him clearly without straining his neck.  “Sort of.  How about the _why?”_

Jim throws back the rest of his drink, considering.  The question, the bar, the man.  He looks down at his empty glass.

“I find you interesting,” he says, and no sooner does he finish than the blond beside him starts to laugh.

He _laughs._ A quick scoff that is harmless and tame, but still makes Jim’s eyes go wide, his eyebrows shoot up in wordless surprise.

“Interesting?” Moran smiles, something that is somehow difficult to read, to place.  A wordless catch between flattery and incredulity.  “What, is that your version of a pick-up line?”

And James Moriarty – the world’s only consulting criminal, the center of the largest crime web on the planet – feels his ears go hot at the accusation. 

He can’t quite remove the shock from his face as he _sputters_.  (Him!)  “Why – how in the world could you _possibly_ –”

“Intuition.”  It’s the word Moran chooses.

“You know, I mean it.  Not just –” he sighs.  “You are rather… intriguing.”

“So they tell me.”

“I _mean_ it,” he insists.  “I saw the work you can do today.  Before that, all I really had to go on were your credentials, and just with those I never would have guessed the depth of your… talent.  Right between the eyes.  The quietest, most precise kill I’ve seen in ages.  It was impressive.”

“Ah.  What can I say?  I aim to impress.”

“No, you don’t.  Like I said:  the state of your clothes is very, very telling.”  Jim meets the other man’s eyes with a half-cocked grin.  Moran just shrugs.

“Well-aimed high velocity shot to the head.  As quick and painless as it gets, I guess.”

“Painless?” Jim considers.  He hums.  “A sniper who makes a living on directed murder and gives half a shit about his victims’ suffering.  Did I hire a hitman with a heart?”

Teasing, nearly.  An observation.

“You’re so smart, you tell me.”

A challenge which goes ignored.  “I find it interesting, too… that you’re the first I haven’t had to threaten into working for me.  I didn’t even have to pay you that much.  You came so willingly, as if just for the thrill of it.  The opportunity to kill.  Seems almost contradictory.”

Silence.

“Tell me, Moran, what was the reason for that dishonorable discharge?”

“Oh, piss off,” he snaps.  “Now you’re just showing off.  Trying to be all mysterious.  You didn’t get that from my clothes.”

Jim smiles.  “No, you’re right.  I didn’t.  Got it from your file, but they call the details classified.  If I wanted to have them, believe me, I’d have them.  But instead I’m asking.  I’m curious.”

“Fine then.  If you really want to know, it was sedition.  Commanding officer was a bloody idiot, was gonna get us all killed for false information, but he didn’t see it.  Figured the only shot was getting the rest of the unit to not go through with him.”

“And I take it this didn’t work,” Jim supplies as Moran finishes the rest of his drink.  Neither of them ask for another.

“Not at all.”  He shifts his eyes away.  “Arrested me as soon as they could, kicked me out.  And then my unit went and got themselves blown up for nothing.”

Jim offers a curt nod.  Understanding.  “I see.  And sedition charges evolve into paid assassination… how, exactly?”

And Moran, he smiles.  “For me to know, Boss.  Can’t go telling you everything.”

It would spoil the fun.

“You know, you’re different, Moran,” Jim says after a few moments of quiet.

The usual hint of disinterest.  Calm.  Feigned apathy: “Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah.  You’re not like me, of course; no one’s like me,” he says.  “But you’re not like them, either.”  And he gestures outward, towards the men playing pool, the drunk girls slurring their words at their table, the fight finally being broken up in the corner.

“You’re not like any of them,” he adds, and he is referring to more than just the crowd in the bar.  Moran is silent, staring off at the wall.  Pensive.

“You’re different.  Interesting.”

Finally, a nod, a tight, thoughtful smile as the blond stands from his stool and fishes through his pocket.  After a moment, he finds a bill worth far more than his drinks but pays it no mind as he wedges it under the glass.  He leans against the bar counter, suddenly looking his employer up and down.  Scanning.

“Sebastian,” he says.

“Hm?”

“Sebastian,” Moran repeats, leaning his head back.  He looks Jim right in the eyes.  “If you’re going to have me, I’d have you use my first name.”

Jim’s eyes go wide once again at the suggestion.  “Who ever said I’ll have you?”

“No one ever said you will,” Sebastian admits, a wild grin spreading across his face.  “But the gun in your pocket tells me you’d like to.”

He blushes.

_Blushes._

The world’s most dangerous man, capable of inflicting irrevocable havoc on entire nations, James Moriarty – _blushing_.

And Sebastian Moran smiling.

“Looks like you’re not the only one making deductions, yeah?”

* * *

 

It was an _interest_.  Curiosity, intrigue, physical attraction, all at first.  Not exactly lust.  Far from infatuation for a man he's barely met.

That’s what Jim Moriarty would say if anyone asked, but no one ever will.  No one in the world – save, perhaps, for Sebastian Moran – has got the nerve. 

And how he appreciates nerve.

It’s days later, encounters later when, in late-morning sunlight, Sebastian sits on the edge of the bed, fastens his boots, turns his head and asks.  “So what do you think?”

“Hm?” Jim only sounds half-asleep as he slowly pushes the covers off.  “About what?”

“About me.  At the bar that night, you wondered if you hired an assassin with a heart.  Have you come up with an answer?”  He sounds as if he barely cares about it.  As if the matter of his own heart is neither here nor there, just a mere curiosity.  A fun fact, if he didn't know any better.

Jim just sighs as he gets up and crosses the room.  Grabs his pants off the chair he hung them from and starts pulling them on, explaining.  “Sebastian, everyone on this planet has a heart.”

He turns to look him in the eyes.

“Some just… far more hidden than others.”

And he looks away.  Zips his pants, buttons his shirt, ties his tie.  Once he’s finished, he steps out of the room, inviting Sebastian to follow.

“Now come on.  I have a job for you today.”

He stands for a moment, glancing down at the shadow his body makes on the carpet, the light pouring into the room from the window.  The bed, unmade and chaotic.  He smiles.

He waits for just those few seconds – and as soon as he tears his eyes away, he turns right on his heels and heads out into the day.


End file.
